


Nine Lives

by writeivywrite



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeivywrite/pseuds/writeivywrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam asked him last week, when he was drunk and feeling brave, how he knew about Harry, and Zayn was drunk and feeling brave, too, so he told him he didn’t know, that’s the point. There was no crash, no bang, no chase through an airport. It was more quiet than that. Zayn didn’t even feel it, how, from the moment he and Harry met, the space between them got smaller and smaller until there wasn’t any at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Lives

 

 

The light comes on so suddenly it feels like he’s drowning. ‘I’m awake,’ Zayn gasps, sitting up and covering his eyes with his hand. For a moment he has no idea where he is, whether he’s in another hotel bed or in his bunk on the bus, rolling on to another venue in another city he won’t remember an hour after he leaves. That’s nothing new, but then he feels the duvet being tugged off him and Paul only does that when he’s _pissed_.

‘What? What?’ Zayn says with a jolt and immediately regrets it, moving his hands to the top of his head as he’s hit by a wave of pain that almost knocks him back onto the bed. He’s about to let it, the promise of the soft, soft pillow impossible to ignore. But as he’s giving into the weight of his head, Paul shakes him and tells him to get up and Zayn sits up so suddenly he doesn’t know how he doesn’t break his neck.

‘Am I late?’ Even opening his eyes hurts, but when they refocus, it isn’t Paul, it’s his mother, and it’s only then that Zayn realises he’s at home.

 _Home_. It still doesn’t feel right calling his house that. Home will forever be the tiny house in Bradford he grew up in with its creaky stairs and white wooden windows that stick in the winter. There’s another family living there now, a couple with two little girls and a cat and he wonders if they fight over the bathroom in the mornings, like they used to, and have barbeques in the small square garden. He checks on it sometimes, when he goes back to visit his grandmother who, despite his best efforts, won’t move. He’s tried bribing her with an array of houses that have everything from chandeliers to under floor heating, but she’s having none of it. Zayn doesn’t blame her; he loves her house. Loves how it sits neatly in the middle of the terrace and always smells of cardamom. He hates having iftar dinner anywhere else because it isn’t the same without all of them huddled around her big dining table, he and his sisters fighting over the last samosa.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ his mother says, kissing his forehead.

‘Mum?’ That hurts, too, his voice rusty, as though he hasn’t spoken for months, and as he rubs his throat, he gets a flash of the night before, of shouting until his head hurt, and falls back onto the bed.

‘Come on, Zain. You’ve got to get up,’ she tells him when he does, clapping her hands as she hurries across the bedroom and disappears into the dressing room.

‘Why?’

She isn’t listening and when he hears her opening and closing drawers, he shuts his eyes and wishes her luck. He’s been living there for almost a year and he still hasn’t unpacked properly so whatever his mother is looking for, she won’t find it. Living isn’t the right word, _staying_ is more apt. The house feels more like a hotel, everything glossy and vaguely familiar, like the black chest of drawers Doniya insisted he buy because she said the bedroom was too white and the leather bed Liam helped him pick out that Harry hates because he says it makes the room smell like the inside of a car. Zayn can’t smell it, but he agrees that every room has that new house smell – drying paint and freshly laid carpets. His mother tries. Whenever he’s in London, she’ll come and stay, do his washing and try to work out how to use the shiny but needlessly complicated oven. But then she goes home again and the house goes back to feeling too big.

Perhaps if he was there more his aftershave would get into the curtains and the sofa in the kitchen would start to smell of buttered toast and marmalade, but he’s only there a day or two a month, if that, so it smells strange. Untouched. Even hotels don’t smell like that. No matter how vigorously they clean them you still know that you’re not the first person to use them. Sometimes he walks into a hotel room and the first thing he smells is someone’s last cigarette or the perfume they put on before they left. Uncleanable, ghostly smells of all the people who slept there before him.

Zayn thinks of Harry then, of that _Motel 6_ in Arizona they stayed at last year. Harry had always wanted to drive across America, apparently, and they did, in a hulking tour bus, which wasn’t quite as romantic as the '49 _Hudson_ he’d daydreamed about. So, after much grovelling and against his better judgement, Paul rented Harry a _Cadillac_ and agreed to let him drive from Las Vegas to Phoenix. As annoyed as the other lads were, they didn’t object when he took Zayn. They should have known then that they knew, but they still savoured the mischief of it, of slinging their bags into the backseat and sneaking a kiss when everyone was piling onto the bus.

Vegas to Phoenix is only a five hour drive, which was nowhere near enough, so while he and Harry promised faithfully to follow the tour bus, as soon as they could, they peeled off in search of apple pie. By the time they got back on the US-93 it was dark and they were so high on the thrill of driving too fast and their cinnamon-tinged kisses that Harry didn’t see the coyote wander into their path until it was too late. He had to veer off the road and it happened so fast, Harry’s hand in Zayn’s hair one second then reaching for the steering wheel the next. Zayn swears he smelt the wheels first, the sticky smell of rubber on tarmac filling the car half a second before he realised that they were heading into a ditch, the _Cadillac_ bouncing as Harry struggled to hold the wheel.

It didn’t occur to Zayn that they might die. He’s thought about it dozens of times since then – every time he tells the story – about all the things that could have gone wrong, how he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and could have gone through the windscreen or how the engine could have exploded, like they do in films, but at the time, he wasn’t scared at all. If anything, he’d never felt so alive, his blood hot under his skin and his heart pounding. He even laughed – him, Zayn Malik, who’s scared of _everything_ – because Harry was there and he knew that they’d be okay. So when the car finally stopped and he checked that Harry was okay, he pulled him into his lap and kissed him until Harry peeled his mouth away to laugh and point out that the engine was smoking.

They clambered out to discover that the front of the _Cadillac_ was fucked and they’d popped a tire. Paul was _furious_ , telling Harry not to call _Triple AAA_ because he wasn’t twenty-one and wasn’t supposed to be driving a rental. He told them to stay put until he got there and Zayn heard the edge of panic in Harry’s voice when he reminded him that it was almost 2 a.m. ‘You’re three hours away, Paul. There’s a _Motel 6_ up the road. I can see the sign from here,’ Harry suggested, lifting his eyelashes to look at Zayn with a slow smile. ‘Why don’t we check in there? You can come get us in the morning.’

Zayn didn’t think for a second that Paul would agree, not until Harry started doing his victory dance. Zayn joined in, too (it’s the only dance he’s ever really mastered) then pulled Harry into another kiss before they grabbed their bags from the backseat and started heading towards the _Motel 6_ sign in the distance. They held hands all the way and it was a strange moment to realise it, given he still had the taste of Harry’s mouth on his tongue, but it was the most intimate thing they’d ever done. They’d held hands before. It’s Zayn’s thing, apparently. He had no idea he did it, not until Harry pointed it out, then he caught himself reaching for Harry’s hand one night while he was going down on him. Harry smiled when he did it and it made Zayn smile as well as he wondered what else Harry had noticed that he hadn’t.

When they got there, giggling and out of breath from stopping every few steps to kiss, they realised that the _Motel 6_ Kingman West wasn’t quite the _Four Seasons_ , but when they walked into the room and saw the double bed, it dawned on them that they were about to spend the night alone for the first time since they met and they suddenly didn’t care about the leaves in the swimming pool or the cigarette burns in the comforter. So they stayed up until 5 a.m. because they could, and ate _Twinkies_ from the vending machine, because they could, and had sex twice, because they could.

The second time, Zayn had to stop to catch his breath and he’d never had to do that before. But then it had never been like _that_ before. It was as fierce as always – Harry telling Zayn not to stop, that he could take it as he held on tight enough to leave bruises – but there was an easiness to it that Zayn wasn’t used to. He usually fucked Harry with one eye open, with one eye on the bathroom door or with a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming. But that night they did it with abandon. They left the curtains open and Zayn held Harry’s arm behind his back, pinning him to the bed as he thrust into him until Harry pressed his cheek to the pillow and said his name over and over.

It was too much, beads of sweat chasing one another down Zayn’s back like rain on a windscreen as he pulled his mouth away from Harry’s neck to open his eyes and snatch a breath. That’s when he heard it – someone banging on the wall – and stopped, his lips parted and his chest heaving as though he’d just woken up from a dream. For a second he thought he imagined it, but then he heard it again and laughed. ‘Fuck me, baby!’ Harry cried in his best porn star voice, laughing, too, as Zayn made sure that he thrust into him hard enough to make the headboard knock into the wall.

It went on like that until the person in the next room turned their television up so loud Zayn could hear the weather report. Then they found themselves competing with an infomercial for a nose hair trimmer, which made them laugh more, and they knew they were being obnoxious, but after months of holding it in, of kissing around corners and Zayn having to cover Harry’s mouth with his hand when he couldn’t be quiet, it was a relief to let it go. They could beg and bite and moan.

Then they weren’t showing off and Zayn couldn’t hear the television through the wall any more as he looked at Harry. Harry stretched out beneath him, his hair sticking to the nape of his neck. Harry’s hand in his, their fingers locked so tightly that Zayn didn’t know who was holding onto who. Harry looking at him over his shoulder telling him that they should just get in the car and go.

Harry.

Harry.

Harry.

The memory makes the pain in Zayn’s throat worse as he thinks about last night, of the argument they had in Mahiki, Zayn in his face but Harry not budging, his eyes wild and bright as he pushed and pushed and pushed. Zayn rolls onto his stomach with a tender sigh, burying his face in the pillow, but as he closes his eyes, he hears the doorbell and lifts his head again as his mother comes running out of the dressing room.

‘The fuck?’ he groans, looking at her, then at his iPod dock to find it’s 4.28 a.m.

It’s his day off – he’s sure it is, his mother wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t – so why does he need to be up so early? When he turns his head to look at the window, he sees that it’s still dark, the rain throwing itself at the glass like rice at a wedding, and no.

No.

Swearing would usually earn him a telling off, but his mother doesn’t notice as she chucks a pair of black jeans and a hoodie on the end of the bed and tells him to get dressed. Zayn ignores her, letting his head fall back onto the pillow as he listens to her slippers slapping against her heels as she runs down the stairs. But then he hears the front door open and when he hears Louis’ voice his heart stops. He doesn’t believe it, though, not until he hears him running up the stairs, then he’s in the doorway.

‘Get up,’ Louis tells him, striding towards the bed and tearing the duvet back.

‘The fuck are you doing in my house?’

‘Zain!’ His mother frowns, covering his bare arse with the duvet.

Louis picks up the clothes from the end of the bed and throws them at him.

‘Get dressed.’

‘Is this about last night?’ Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘Can’t we do this on the phone?’

‘I would if you answered your phone.’

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ his mother tries, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing his hair out of his eyes with her fingers, but she’s not looking at him, her gaze sweeping across the bedroom like the beam of a lighthouse, taking in the debris. The skin between her eyebrows creases as she sees the beer bottles and clothes – Zayn’s leather jacket, his trainers, his jeans, his t-shirt that lead like a trail of breadcrumbs from the bedroom door to the bed – and when it settles on the ashtray on the bedside table, Zayn knows that she sees the blunt he smoked until he passed out last night. Usually, he’d be embarrassed, but she’s just seen his bare arse. Besides, the SS Dignity sailed last month when she walked in on him and Harry doing it on his new chest of drawers.

When Louis reaches over to the bedside table, Zayn’s sure that he’s going to say something about it, shove the filthy ashtray in his face and say, ‘So this is what you were doing last night instead of answering your phone?’ But he starts rooting through all the other crap on the bedside table instead and before Zayn can ask what he’s looking for, he walks over to the discarded clothes on the floor and picks up his jeans.

‘This,’ he takes Zayn’s phone out of the back pocket and holds it up, ‘is a mobile phone. A novel invention, Mr Malik. When it rings, you answer it.’

So this is about Harry.

‘Don’t start, Lou.’

‘Fifty-nine missed calls,’ he says under his breath then points the phone at Zayn when he rolls onto his back. ‘Why aren’t you getting dressed?’

‘Fuck off, Lou,’ he tells him, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘Unless someone’s died, I don’t know what you’re doing in my house at four-thirty in the morning.’

‘It’s Harry.’

Zayn sits up so quickly his heart spins and he’ll never forgive Louis for saying it like that – _never_ – for not even trying to say it gently. Zayn waits for him to, waits for him to add, _Don’t worry, it’s okay_ and when he doesn’t, Zayn shakes his head at him.

‘Don’t you finish that fucking sentence, Louis.’

Louis looks at him and it’s as if everything stops. Zayn imagines trains grinding to a halt and birds stilling in the sky, mid-swoop, as every clock in the house stops at once, blinking 12:00, 12:00, 12:00. Then the thought gets in – Harry’s dead – and it’s like a drop of ink in water, spreading, spreading, spreading until it’s everywhere, under his skin, in his blood. He can’t be, Zayn would feel it. He’d feel the hole. But Louis isn’t saying anything and all Zayn can hear is the tap, tap, tap of the rain on the pool cover outside and why isn’t Louis saying anything?

‘He’s in the hospital,’ he says, finally, and Zayn lets go of the breath.

‘For fucks sake, Lou.’

He feels like a death row inmate who just got an eleventh hour pardon from the governor, his whole body weak with relief as he covers his face with his hands.

‘Breathe, baby,’ he hears his mother tell him, rubbing his back with her hand.

He tries to and when he catches his breath, he puts his hands in his hair.

‘He’s okay, though,’ Zayn says, lifting his chin to look at Louis.

Louis nods at the clean pair of jeans and hoodie. ‘Just get dressed.’

He says it softly this time and it makes Zayn lose time with his breath again.

‘He’s okay, though?’ he asks again with a frown.

‘Get dressed, Zayn.’

 

+++

 

By the time Louis tears out of Zayn’s drive way, the sun is coming up. It’s June and the sky should be the colour of peeled mangoes, but the rain is so heavy that he can barely see the sky as the windscreen wipers sweep back and forth. At least the sound of the rain beating down on the roof of the car is softening the silence as Zayn waits for Louis to say something. He keeps sneaking looks at him, but he hasn’t said a word, just told Zayn that he’d wait in the car while he got dressed. But then Zayn hasn’t asked, either, because he doesn’t want to know, his heart seizing up every time he thinks of Harry, broken and bleeding. He’s never seen Harry’s blood – not once, not even a cut – and he never wants to. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he gets to the hospital and finds out that it’s the same colour as his heart. So he wishes Louis would say something, tell him that it’s nothing, that Harry will be okay, _anything_ to ease the tightness in his chest. But it’s Louis and he’d never lie to him, so he just drives, a little faster than he usually does, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel every time they have to stop at a red light.

Zayn has to fight the urge to get out of the car each time they do because he can’t take it. He wishes he was with someone else, like his mother who just told him to go and she’d meet him at the hospital between kisses on the cheek, or Liam who’d hug him and tell him that everything was going to be okay. Even Niall would be better than Louis; at least he’d make a joke about Harry’s hard head as he slung an arm around his shoulders. Actually, Harry’s the only one who knows how to calm him down when he’s like this, like when they’re on an aeroplane and it’s about to take off. Harry will start babbling about nothing or tell a shit joke and when Zayn lets go of the armrest between them, Harry knows to take his hand and not let go until Zayn does. But then only Louis has the bollocks to ring his mother at four-thirty in the morning and Zayn has never loved him more than he does then because he knows that Louis gets it. If this happened to Eleanor and he didn’t know, Louis would want Zayn to kick his fucking front door in.

They stop at another red light and when Louis leans forward to peer through the windscreen, Zayn knows that he’s considering going through it. He could, it’s almost five o’clock on a Sunday morning and the only people they’ve passed is a guy walking a scruffy dog and another sweeping the pavement near Regent’s Park. Louis’ hand hovers over the gear stick as he considers it and that scares Zayn more than anything, more than the thought of what’s awaiting him at the hospital, the fact that Louis thinks he has to jump a red light because whatever it is can’t wait a few moments for it to change. But then it does and they’re tearing around Trafalgar Square, a clump of pigeons scattering as they do.

They’re going so fast that Zayn tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes because he can’t look at Louis any more, at his jaw clenching and his hands wringing the steering wheel. At first Zayn thought he was mad – and maybe he was, when he first walked into his bedroom to find him half-asleep – but he’s scared, Zayn realises, as they swerve suddenly to avoid a bus. Louis isn’t scared of anything so Zayn tries to distract himself, but he doesn’t have a happy place, so he thinks of Harry, of the first time they met. Their paths almost crossed several times before then – at the auditions, Harry in that stupid scarf, then at boot camp, Harry in that stupid hat, then backstage, Harry crying and wiping his eyes with the stupid hat after they were made to line up on stage and hear everyone else’s names read out – but they never spoke.

They were aware of one another. Harry was the cute one everyone was sure would go through and Zayn was the mardy one who wouldn’t dance. For a moment, Zayn thought that’s all they’d ever be, but then a producer called out his name and he was following Harry and three other guys onstage. He and Harry didn’t even speak then, none of them did, too scared to jinx it as they waited for Simon to say something. That’s the last thing Zayn wanted more than Harry, for Simon to give him a second chance, and when he did, that’s when he and Harry met, when their futures knotted together.

As soon as they ran off stage, Harry hugged everyone he saw and when he flew at Zayn, he almost knocked him off his feet. ‘Don’t let me mess this up again,’ Harry said in his ear. ‘I promise,’ he said and he doesn’t know why because Harry probably didn’t even realise that he’d said it out loud – all five of them were thinking the same thing – but Zayn still held onto him for a beat longer than he had the other lads because it felt like their first secret. In the end, it was Harry who didn’t let Zayn mess it up, a week later when the reality of being in a band with four other guys who were more boisterous and funny and talented than him set in. Zayn found himself going for more cigarettes during rehearsals, relishing the few minutes of silence to not think about forgetting his words or messing up the dance routine, but it was never enough. The pressure was palpable. He felt it sometimes, sitting on his chest at night as he stared into the dark, and he’d never felt anything like it. It wasn’t just the pressure of his own future, but knowing that everyone else’s was resting on him, too, and it was too much.

Too much.

Zayn tried not to, but he felt himself stepping back. Maybe his mother was right, maybe he was just scared, or maybe it was self-preservation because he didn’t want to get attached, but Harry interpreted his anxiety as ambivalence and the trouble with Harry is he needs everyone to love him and if he thinks they don’t, he goes after them with the focus of a heat-seeking missile. So he started following Zayn out for cigarettes and staying up with him, talking about everything _but_ the band while they watched old films until they fell asleep on the sofa. Then, when he finally realised what the problem was, Harry marched into the rehearsal room and said, ‘Let’s not do the dance.’

Louis tossed Zayn a filthy look. ‘All boy bands dance, though.’

‘Let’s be the one that doesn’t.’ Harry shrugged. ‘Let’s focus on the singing. Strip it down and show off our voices. That’s all Simon cares about. We can learn how to dance.’

Niall seemed relieved. ‘That’s a good idea, actually.’

Liam agreed and that’s how it started, when Harry heard what Zayn was saying even though he hadn’t said it out loud. Zayn wasn’t sure what _it_ was, but no one had ever known him like that so he didn’t fight it, just let Harry in, and they became inseparable.

It wasn’t as obvious as it was with Louis. They didn’t hug or swap clothes and Harry never looked at him then burst out laughing like he did with Louis. Each time they did it, it should have been like a curtain falling between them, but Zayn didn’t care because at night, Harry would come and find him. He’d wait for Zayn to stop kissing whoever he was kissing in whatever club they were in then take Zayn by the sleeve and pull him into a corner. And while he’d never say, _Don’t go home with her_ , he wouldn’t let go of his sleeve, either, his lips wet as he offered Zayn some of his drink. Or at the house, he’d sit next to Zayn on the back step and watch the smoke from his cigarette slip from his lips and disappear into the darkness like a ghost while they made lists of all the places they wanted to go. So while Harry and Louis hugged and swapped clothes and had their private jokes, Harry never looked at Louis the way he looked at Zayn – like he was waiting to catch every word he said in the palm of his hand – and Zayn liked it that way. Louis could have Harry all day because Zayn had him at night, when it was just the two of them and he didn’t have to share him with a roomful of people.

Their first kiss happened on one of those nights. Zayn can’t even remember where they were, but he knows that they were on the tour bus. He couldn’t sleep so he was slouched on the sofa at the back, listening to his iPod, when Harry ambled over, his hair everywhere. He collapsed next to Zayn his head tipping back on the sofa, next to his.

‘You alright, mate?’

Zayn tugged one of the earbuds out of his ear and shrugged. ‘Can’t sleep.’

‘What you listening to?’

‘Bob Marley. It usually chills me out.’

‘Why isn’t it?’

‘Dunno.’

Harry reached for the earbud, a stray curl grazing Zayn’s cheek as he did, making his heart flutter suddenly as he leaned closer so Harry could put it in his ear. He didn’t need to, but then Harry didn’t need to open his legs so their knees were touching.

They sat like that for a while, Harry’s hands on his stomach and Zayn fiddling with the white wire of the earphones as he thought of his parents and felt a sudden stab of homesickness. He wondered what they were doing then, if they were curled up on the sofa watching Coronation Street, his mother chuckling between sips of tea while his father rubbed her feet, and asked himself if that was love, not always having to talk.

But then Harry turned to him and said, ‘We should go to Jamaica.’

‘Yeah?’

‘My mum’s friend went to Negril last year. She said the beaches are amazing.’

Zayn closed his eyes and sighed dreamily. ‘Don’t.’

‘Imagine falling asleep in the shade with sand between your toes.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ Zayn said, but he couldn’t even imagine it. All he’d seen for weeks was the inside of the bus or the inside of an arena and the road between the two, so the thought of looking at nothing but sky was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

‘We can jump off the cliffs at Rick's Café.’

Zayn chuckled. ‘I’ll hold your towel.’

‘Come on.’ Harry nudged him with his knee. ‘You gotta do it once.’

‘I’m sure I’ll only do it once, cos I’d fucking die.’

Harry laughed, his whole body shaking, and that’s the last thing Zayn remembered before the bus shuddered and he woke up with a jolt. Harry did, too, and Zayn didn’t know how long they were asleep, but they were turned into one another, their noses almost touching. Zayn felt Harry’s breath on his lips when he said, 'Let’s go to bed' then felt his lips brush his – just for a second – before Harry stood up.

Maybe they kissed or maybe they didn’t, Zayn still doesn’t know, but it was _something_ because it made his heart shiver and it shivered again when Harry took his hand and led him back to their bunks. Harry yawned, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, as Zayn crawled into his and when Zayn rolled onto his side to face him, he hesitated for a moment before he pulled the curtain, getting one last glimpse of Harry, of his half-closed eyes and pink cheeks before he climbed up into his bunk.

But Harry didn’t get into his bunk, he got into Zayn’s and the shock of it made all of his muscles tense at once. ‘Budge up,’ Harry told him with a grumpy groan as he closed the curtain, nudging Zayn back with his arse as he curled into him, his back against Zayn’s chest. Zayn did as he was told, trying to extricate himself from the duvet, which had become wedged between him and the wall of the bunk. There wasn’t much room, so he jabbed Harry in the back with his knee, which provoked another grumpy groan as he muttered at Zayn to keep still. He jabbed him a couple more times before he finally managed to untangle himself, but when he did and pulled the duvet over them, Harry snuffled happily and just like that he was asleep. Zayn was amazed. He thought he fell asleep easily, but Harry could fall asleep halfway through a sentence. He looked so content that Zayn couldn’t help but stare, watching his chest rise and fall until he could feel himself being pulled under as well. And maybe he did or maybe he didn’t, but he swears the last thing he heard before he fell asleep was Harry saying his name.

‘Stop the car!’ Zayn gasps, reaching out for the dashboard.

‘This is Whitehall. We can’t stop here.’ Louis frowns. ‘That’s Downing Street!’

‘Unless you want me to be sick all over your car, you’d better fucking stop.’

Louis pulls into a bus stop and Zayn just manages to get the door open and lean out of the car before he vomits on the pavement. He can’t remember the last time he threw up like that and he’s horrified, tears coursing down his cheeks as he vomits again.

‘It’s alright, mate,’ Louis breathes, rubbing his back, and it’s so kind that it makes Zayn cry more, his hand over his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. But before he can, he hears Louis swear and Zayn lifts his head to see a police car pulling up behind them.

This is all they need, he thinks, as another bitter roll of nausea crashes through him. He can’t wait to see the front page of the _Daily Star_ tomorrow.

 _One Direction in Plot to Assassinate Prime Minister_.

He raises his hand to explain as the police officer gets out of his car and walks towards them, but then he doesn’t have to as he vomits on the pavement again.

‘Oh dear,’ the officer says with a tut, shaking his head. ‘Heavy night?’

‘He’s had a shock, actually,’ Louis says defensively as Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Our friend’s in hospital. We’re on our way to Tommy’s.’

The officer nods. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Zayn,’ he manages, but it’s an effort, his throat _burning_.

‘Hello, Zayn, I’m Duncan. Can you undo your seat belt?’

He does and when the officer helps him out of the car, Louis undoes his, too.

‘You can’t arrest him for being sick!’ he snaps, but the officer ignores him and tells him to put his hazard lights on as he leads Zayn around the puddle of vomit.

‘Sorry,’ Zayn says pitifully when he sees it.

‘No worries. I’ve seen worse,’ he says with a kind smile, leading Zayn further down the pavement. Mercifully, the rain has stopped as he tells Zayn to stop and take a deep breath. He does, watching the officer as he walks back to his car and return with a bottle of water and a pack of tissues. ‘You’re not supposed to stop here, but it’s dead so stay with him until he catches his breath,’ he tells Louis. ‘I’ll stay here until he does.’

‘Thank you.’ Louis nods, coming over to stand next to Zayn.

‘Just go,’ Zayn tells him as soon as he does. ‘I’ll get a cab.’

‘Like fuck I’m leaving you in this state.’

‘I’m fine. Just go,’ Zayn says, then immediately dissolves into tears, his shoulders shaking as Louis puts his arm around him. He tries to stop, but it’s as if something in him has given way and he can’t stop, the tears spilling out of him hot and fast.

‘It’s alright, mate. Come on,’ Louis says quietly, opening the bottle of water and trying to hand it to him. ‘Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.’

‘I can’t,’ Zayn says, head in his hands. ‘I can’t catch my breath.’

‘You can. Come on. Breathe. Breathe.’

‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ Zayn lifts his head to look at him. ‘Harry. It’s bad, isn’t it?’

Louis doesn’t look at him, just tries to hand him the bottle of water. ‘Drink this.’

‘Lou.’

He sighs and puts the lid back on. ‘He was hit by a car.’

Everything stops again and suddenly Zayn is so numb that he can’t feel the tears dripping off his jaw any more, just taste them when he licks his lips. ‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Where?’

‘Outside Mahiki.’

‘What?’ Zayn blinks at him. ‘ _How_?’

‘I don’t know. You were with him.’

And there it is.

 _You were with him_.

Zayn puts his hand to his chest and when he looks away, Louis sighs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, immediately contrite, rubbing his forehead with his hand. He never says sorry so he must know that Zayn felt that like a kick in the heart.

‘We’d better go,’ Zayn says, walking away.

He doesn’t know how, but his need to get away from Louis is enough to get him over to the police car. ‘Let me give you my mobile number,’ he tells the officer when he opens the window. ‘I want to pay for the pavement to be cleaned and for the water and stuff.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ He shakes his head. ‘I hope your friend’s okay.’

Zayn nods, fresh tears in his eyes. ‘Me, too.’

 

+++

 

When Zayn climbs back into the car, Louis asks if he’s okay, but he doesn’t look at him, just puts his seat belt on and roots through his pocket for his chewing gum. Louis takes the hint, starting the car and raising his hand at the police officer before he pulls away.

The silence is excruciating so when it starts raining, Zayn’s grateful for the sound of it on the roof again as he leans into the door and lets his head fall against the window, trying to put as much distance between him and Louis as possible. His whole face is burning, either from being sick or from what Louis just said, so the cool glass is a relief against his temple as they cross Lambeth Bridge and he looks down the Thames towards the London Eye, which is lit up like a gold bangle against the grey sky.

He’s never been to St Thomas’ Hospital, but when he sees the _Sky News_ truck he knows they’re there and his stomach lurches again.

‘For fucks sake,’ Louis mutters under his breath, taking his phone out of the front pocket of his denim shirt and tapping at the screen. ‘Li, we’re here,’ he says, putting it on handsfree so he can adjust the windscreen wipers as the rain gathers momentum.

‘Thank God.’ Liam lets go of a breath. ‘Zayn?’

‘I’m here,’ he says, crossing his arms.

‘It’s good to hear your voice, mate,’ he says, and Zayn can hear him smiling, even over the phone. ‘Lou, come ‘round the back. There are paps everywhere.’

‘What way do I go? I can’t see a fucking thing in this rain.’

‘Hold on, I’m gonna hand you over to one of the nurses. He’ll direct you, okay?’

The nurse directs them past the main entrance and when they pass the paps waiting on the curb, Zayn’s shoulders fall, grateful that he won’t have to fight his way through them. It’s raining so hard he’s sure they won’t see them, but one of them recognises Louis’ car and starts running after them. As soon as he does, they all start running, and Louis puts his foot down, the back wheels slipping on the wet road as the nurse tells them to turn right. Zayn reaches for the handle on the door as they skid around the corner, his shoulders jumping up again. They almost hit a parked car and it must scare Louis as well because he goes a little slower as they drive along the side of the hospital.

When they get to the top of the road, they turn right again. Zayn checks over his shoulder to see how close the photographers are, but when they get to the back entrance of the hospital there’s another huddle waiting. They run towards the car when they see them approaching and Zayn doesn’t know how Louis doesn’t veer off the road as their cameras go off, all at once, filling the car with light. He can’t see a thing and puts a hand up as they get closer, telling Louis to be careful as a guy in a padded jacket breaks from the pack and runs out into middle of the road. Zayn tells him to stop, but Louis doesn’t flinch. He keeps going and just when Zayn’s sure he’s going to hit him, he pulls sharply onto the ramp down to the staff car park and Zayn almost throws up again.

When Zayn sees the mouth of the car park, he thinks that’s it, but then he sees the barrier and his heart drops. Louis reads his mind and mutters, 'Shit' as the nurse tells them that they need to enter a code to get in. He and Louis exchange a glance as they hear the paps running down the ramp after them, but there’s nothing they can do, they have to stop. As soon as they do, the paps surround the car, their cameras knocking so loudly against the windows, Zayn’s sure they’re going to break. Louis tells him to tug up his hoodie and he does, his heart quivering when he hears one of them ask after Harry.

‘Keep your head down,’ Louis warns him as he opens the window to reach out to the keypad, but as soon as he does, one of them shoves his camera in. Louis growls, pushing him back, but the pap just laughs and thanks him for the shot.

‘I’ll be able to take my kids to Disneyland for this one,’ he chuckles, sticking his camera back through the window and taking a few more pictures for good measure.

‘Allow it, Lou,’ Zayn tells him, grabbing the sleeve of Louis’ shirt when he offers him out, but the pap starts on him then.

‘What happened at Mahiki last night, Zayn?’ he asks, almost taking Louis’ eye out as he directs the lens at him. ‘Why were you and Harry fighting?’

Zayn turns his face away, retreating into his hood as he feels the rain spitting on his cheek through the open window. Louis tells the pap to fuck off, shoving him out of the way to get to the key pad and Zayn doesn’t know how he even _hears_ the nurse say the code, let alone puts it in, but he does and suddenly the barrier is lifting.

It’s painfully slow, but as soon as it’s high enough, Louis drives under it, wheels spinning. The paps pay no attention to the Staff Only signs and run after them, but luckily Security are waiting, three men in high vis jackets holding their arms out and ushering them back up the ramp as Louis and Zayn disappear into the car park.

Then everything is still again and when Louis pulls into the nearest empty space, Zayn dips his head and sucks in a breath, grateful for the sweet second of silence.

‘You alright?’ Louis asks when he turns off the engine.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn tells him without looking at him, taking off his seatbelt.

Liam is waiting for them and pulls Zayn into a hug as soon as he clambers out.

‘You okay, mate?’ he asks, holding him so tight, Zayn can’t help but press his cheek to his shoulder before he makes himself step back.

‘Fine,’ he says with a sniff as Louis gets out of the car and asks about Harry.

Just hearing his name is like a punch in the gut as it finally sinks in – where he is, what he’s about to see.

‘I’ll see you up there, yeah?’ Zayn says before Liam answers. Then he’s walking and blinking away fresh tears. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, just that he needs to be far enough away that he can’t hear what Liam says because he can’t think of Harry as anything other than bright and loud and alive.

He can’t.

But they follow him, Liam reaching for the back of his hoodie, making him stop.

‘Zayn, where you going?’

He turns back to them holding up his box of cigarettes. ‘I need a smoke.’

‘We’ll wait for you.’

‘It’s alright.’ Zayn nods towards the lift. ‘I’ll see you up there.’

‘You don’t even know where there is.’

‘I’ll find it.’

When he turns to walk away, Liam grabs the back of his hoodie again. ‘Zayn.’

He shrugs him off. ‘I’m alright, Li.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘I am. I just need a fag.’

‘But you’re not allowed to smoke down here,’ he says, nodding at one of the No Smoking signs and only Liam would think something like that would work.

Zayn chuckles bitterly. ‘I really couldn’t give a shit,’ he says, putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

Liam watches, his eyes big and sad, then looks at Louis, clearly waiting for him to back him up, but Louis looks at his feet and Liam’s face hardens. ‘What did you say?’

‘I didn’t,’ Louis starts to say, then sighs and shakes his head. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘Mean what?’

‘Zayn, mate,’ Louis says and there’s something about the way he says it, about the way he holds his palms out and shrugs as if to say _Come on_ rather than _I’m sorry_ that sends a fresh flush of shame burning through him.

Zayn can’t look at him and turns away, walking past the neat rows of cars towards the back of the car park. As he does, he hears Liam say, ‘All you had to do was get him here, Louis. That’s all Gemma asked you to do. I knew I should have done it.’

‘I’m sorry, alright?’ Louis says, raising his voice as well.

Zayn hears footsteps behind him and turns as Louis reaches for his sleeve. ‘Just leave it, Lou,’ he warns, pulling away, but he doesn’t.

‘I’m sorry. I’m a dick. I shouldn’t have said that it was your fault.’

‘You told him it was his fault?’ Liam says, suddenly between them.

Louis points at his mouth ‘Didn’t I just say that I didn’t mean it?’

‘No.’ Zayn shakes his head. ‘You said that you shouldn’t have said it.’

Louis looks at him like he’s mad. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘It means that you shouldn’t have said it not that you didn’t mean it.’

Liam presses a hand to Zayn’s chest and frowns. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’

‘‘Course he didn’t.’

Louis throws his hands up. ‘Aren’t I allowed to be upset as well?’

‘You can be as upset as you want, Lou.’ Zayn tells him, taking a drag on his cigarette then turning his face away to blow the smoke away. ‘Just fucking own it.’

‘Own what? People say things they shouldn’t when they're upset.’

Zayn throws his head back and laughs. ‘There you go again!’

‘Fine!’ Louis snaps, holding his arms out. ‘Fine! You shouldn’t have left him!’

Zayn points his cigarette at him, his heart stinging. ‘There it is!’

‘Yes. There it fucking is. Harry was shitfaced and you shouldn’t have left him alone in that state. You’re his boyfriend, Zayn. You’re supposed to look out for him.’

Liam presses a hand to his chest as well, keeping them apart. ‘Come on, Lou.’

‘You don’t know a fucking thing about me and Harry.’

 _Me and Harry_.

The shot lands, Louis’ cheeks flushing. ‘Just that you’re ashamed of him.’

That shot lands as well, but before Zayn can retaliate, Liam is in front of him, nudging him back with his hip. ‘Just ignore him, mate,’ he says in his ear. ‘Ignore him.’

Zayn can’t. ‘Fuck you, Louis,’ he spits, pointing at him over Liam’s shoulder.

‘It’s alright.’ Liam nudges him back again. ‘Ignore him. He’s upset,’ he says, putting his arm around Zayn’s shoulders and leading him away. ‘He doesn’t mean it.’

Zayn tries to shrug him off, but Liam won’t let him and presses his other hand to his chest so he can’t turn around as Louis calls after them telling Zayn to grow up.

‘Ignore him,’ he says again, patting Zayn’s chest. ‘He’s just upset.’

‘This would never have happened if you were with him,’ Louis says and it sounds so loud in the cavernous car park that Zayn feels it like it shove in the back.

He tries to turn around again but Liam won’t let him and if he wasn’t there, Zayn doesn’t know what he’d do, his hand balling into a fist as he takes a pull on his cigarette.

‘Fuck him, Liam. He doesn’t give a shit about Harry.’

They’re almost at the other end of the car park so Louis has to shout it. It’s his last shot, Zayn knows, before he and Liam disappear into the stairwell and it works because he gets him right in the heart. Zayn manages to look back at him before Liam opens the door to the stairwell and pushes him through it, and Louis looks so smug that if Zayn could, he would charge at him, but he’s too scared to move, that’s the point.

‘Just breathe.’ Liam takes the cigarette from between Zayn’s fingers, drops it and crushes it under the heel of his trainer. ‘Take a breath.’

He can’t, the sudden brightness of stairwell making his eyes sting. ‘Just go, Li.’

‘I’m not leaving you.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘You’re not.’

‘I will be. I just need a minute.’

‘I’ll wait with you.’

‘Who’s with him?’

Liam doesn’t answer and Zayn’s chest tightens.

‘Please, Li.’ He lifts his eyelashes to look at him. ‘Don’t leave him on his own.’

Liam steps back. ‘Okay. But if you need me, call and I’ll come straight down.’

‘Okay.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

‘Okay.’ Liam nods. ‘We’ll be ICU 1, East Wing, first floor. Turn right at the lifts.’

Zayn nods back. ‘Okay.’

He turns to open the door to the stairwell, then stops and pulls Zayn into a hug so big, his feet leave the floor for a second.

‘Everything’s going to be okay, I promise. He’ll be okay,’ Liam says into his ear. But Zayn doesn’t hug him back, scared that he won’t let go if he does as he gets a flash of Harry, still and pale and strung up to a load of machines. So all he allows himself to do is tug on the front of Liam’s jumper as he lets go and kisses Zayn on the forehead.

Then he’s gone and Zayn can take a breath. It’s deep and desperate, his head spinning as he takes a step back and sits on one of the steps. He can’t, but he’s sure that he can hear the rain – faintly, like hearing a train pass through a station somewhere he can’t see – and it makes him think of the first time he and Harry kissed. Definitely kissed. They were recording in Stockholm and it was an equally miserable day, the rain hammering down as though the world was about to end. Zayn was feeling much the same: terrified and bone tired after not sleeping worrying about his part in Rock Me. He’d been pacing around the studio all day while the other lads recorded their parts, then Liam was in the booth and Zayn knew he was next so he slipped out for a cigarette.

The studio is like Vegas, Rami always says, you never know whether it’s day or night, so as Zayn walked out, he honestly didn’t know which it was. It was still light – just – but as he approached the back door, he could see that it was raining. He knew that there was nowhere to shelter, but he was so desperate for a cigarette that he told himself he’d be okay if he was quick, but as he got closer, he realised the rain was apocalyptic and his heart sank. He was banging his head against the door when Hasse, one of the engineers, passed him on his way back into the studio. ‘The red _Volvo_ ,’ he said, throwing Zayn his car keys and nodding at the car park. ‘Roll the window down.’

Zayn resisted the urge to kiss him and thanked him with a quick smile as he ran out into the rain. He should have, though, because the rain was heavier than he thought, soaking through his t-shirt in the few seconds it took to get from the door to the car. But then he got in and it wasn’t a second too soon as he let go of the breath he’d been holding onto and a hot tear rolled down his cheek. He swatted it away with his fingers as another rolled down his other cheek, but before he could catch it, the door opened and Harry dove into the passenger seat. 

Zayn almost jumped clean out of his skin.

‘Jesus!’ he gasped as Harry slammed the door shut, the whole car bouncing.

‘Where we going, man?’ he said, shaking the rain out of his hair like a dog.

‘Nowhere. I was just going to have a cigarette.’

He wiped the tear from his cheek, hoping Harry would think he got him with his hair, but of course he said, ‘Why are you crying?’

Zayn looked down, taking his cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans. ‘I’m not.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’ll hit the note.’

‘‘The fuck are you asking me, then, if you know what’s wrong?’ Zayn snapped, taking a cigarette out and tapping it twice on the box before putting it between his lips.

‘Because it’s more fun this way.’

Zayn ignored him, lighting it with a huff and opening the window.

‘Cheer up,’ Harry said, reaching over and poking him in the cheek with his finger.

Zayn looked at him from the corner of his eye. ‘What are you doing?’

Harry poked him again. ‘Being adorable.’

‘That isn’t adorable.’

‘Are you sure?’ He grinned, all white teeth and dimples, and it was kind of adorable, but Zayn would never give him the satisfaction.

‘Poke me again and see what happens.’

Of course he did so Zayn punched him in the side.

Harry giggled then punched him back. The trouble is, Harry doesn’t know his own strength sometimes and he did it so hard Zayn was sure he broke one of his ribs.

‘Ow!’ he yelped, almost choking on his cigarette.

‘Oh my God sorry!’ Harry said with a long laugh, clearly unrepentant.

‘I think you punctured my lung, you little shit.’

Zayn clutched his side and usually he would retaliate – punch him in the nuts or pinch his nipple – but he didn’t have the strength, his head falling back against the headrest as he looked down at the cigarette between his fingers and the grey dots of rain on it.

‘You’ll hit the note.’

Zayn didn’t respond, just nodded as he took a drag on the cigarette then turned his face away to blow the smoke out of the window.

He took the hint and they sat in silence, listening to the rain on the roof of the car. Harry was all warm and solid next to him, and when Zayn heard Harry’s breathing slow as if he was about to fall asleep, for the first time that day, he relaxed. Their knees were touching, but Zayn didn’t notice until Harry moved his away and he opened his legs a little wider so they touched again as though he was correcting some imbalance in the Universe.

Liam asked him last week, when he was drunk and feeling brave, how he knew about Harry, and Zayn was drunk and feeling brave, too, so he told him he didn’t know, that’s the point. There was no crash, no bang, no chase through an airport. It was more quiet than that. Zayn didn’t even feel it, how, from the moment he and Harry met, the space between them got smaller and smaller until there wasn’t any at all. Until he didn’t even notice when Harry’s knee was touching his until it wasn’t.

‘Like gravity,’ Liam said in that heart-stopping way he does when he’s on his fifth beer and can sum up the meaning of life in a sentence. And it was a bit like gravity, or it felt that way sometimes when he and Harry were in the same room and gradually came together like magnets. They’d be on opposite sides of the living room but would end up on the same sofa or, when Zayn was in the kitchen, filling the kettle, Harry would come in, complaining about Louis not letting him watch something on the television while he rooted through the fridge, but by the time the kettle had boiled, Harry would be behind him, his chin on Zayn’s shoulder as he asked him to make him a cup of tea as well.

It was as if they always had to be attached in some way, Zayn realised that rainy afternoon in Stockholm as he looked down at their knees touching. If it wasn’t their knees, then they’d be standing so close their hips were touching or Harry’s head would loll onto Zayn’s shoulder a moment before he fell asleep, and it felt so natural, like they couldn’t help it, that Zayn wondered if that was love, not having to try.

‘Sorry if I hurt you,’ Harry said softly, reaching out to touch Zayn’s side.

‘You didn’t,’ Zayn told him, taking another drag on his cigarette.

But Harry didn’t move his hand and when Zayn didn’t tell him to, he slid it across his stomach and let it settle on Zayn’s waist. A second later, Harry’s head was on his shoulder, his hair still damp from the rain and smelling like he just got out of the shower, and before Zayn could stop himself, he pressed his nose into it.

‘You’ll hit the note,’ Harry told him again, his fingers curling around Zayn’s waist.

‘I don’t care,’ he said into his hair.

‘Yes you do.’

‘I don’t. I just don’t want to deal with Louis taking the piss for the rest of the day.’

‘He’s just winding you up,’ Harry said with a chuckle that made Zayn’s stomach tense. The rest of him must have as well because when Zayn took his nose out of his hair, Harry lifted his chin to look at him. ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ he added and Zayn had to bite his tongue before he asked him why he always had to defend him.

‘Louis loves it when I mess up,’ he said instead, looking at the rain as he realised that was what he couldn’t deal with: Harry laughing, too. ‘Remember Tell Me a Lie?’

‘Well if he does, that’s everything to do with him and nothing to do with you.’

Zayn shook his head and laughed as he took a pull on his cigarette because Harry’s so nice – so _good_ , in his bones, his marrow – that Zayn thinks he’s oblivious to stuff like that sometimes, but then he goes and says something like that.

‘Don’t let him get in your head, okay?’ Harry nudged him. ‘You can hit that note.’

Zayn shrugged, brushing the ash from his jeans. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why do you always do this?’

‘Do what?’

‘You tell yourself that you can’t do it before you even try.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘Yes you do. You’ve been fretting about it for days. _I can’t do it, man. I can’t do it_ ,’ he said, putting on Zayn’s Bradford accent. ‘You haven’t even been in the booth yet.’

‘I know what I’m capable of, Harry.’

‘No you don’t. That’s the point: You don’t have a clue how good you are.’

He shook his head and Harry sat up, punching him in the side again. He did it in the same spot and Zayn yelped. ‘Fucker!’

‘I love you, Zayn, but you’re an idiot. You have to stop doing this. You almost blew your X Factor audition because you thought you couldn’t dance.’

‘I can’t.’

‘True,’ Harry conceded with a smirk. ‘But there’s a reason Simon went backstage to find you, not Brian or one of the producers but _Simon_. Think how many people were there that day and he noticed that _you_ weren’t on stage.’

Zayn lifted his eyelashes to look him in the eye for the first time since he got in the car. He’d never thought about it that way and his heart lit up suddenly – hot and bright, like a neon sigh – and he wondered if Harry could see it through his t-shirt.

‘Alright, Yoda,’ he said with a theatrical sigh, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

When he pulled back, he looked at Harry and it was one of their looks, one of their long, clock-stopping looks that made Zayn aware of the world turning under his feet. So when Harry nudged him with his nose, he kissed him on the forehead again, for a second longer, his hand cupping the back of Harry’s neck. But when he pulled away, Harry tilted his head and Zayn tilted his and that kind of felt like gravity as well, like a tipping point when the space between them finally closed and their mouths met.

Zayn had thought about it, of course – of kissing him. He almost had so many times when Harry looked at him like that, his eyes round and black. And he knew that Harry had considered it, too, he’d seen Harry lick his lips and look at his mouth as he played with one of the buttons on Zayn’s shirt, so he didn’t lie awake at night wondering if Harry liked him. _If_ had become _when_ , but that brought fresh fears. Who would kiss who first? What would it be like? What would the other lads do when they found out?

In the end, Zayn didn’t think about any of those things, he just gave into it, his eyelids fluttering shut as his hand fisted in Harry’s hair. He thought it would be clumsier, all teeth and lips and butterflies, maybe even a little rough without the sweet slide of lipstick and a delicate cheek. Harry’s cheek wasn’t delicate, but it was warm and plump against his own so it was a struggle to hold onto his cigarette as Harry kissed him with a patience Zayn didn’t think him capable of. He thought Harry would be all over him, in his lap, hands on his belt, but Harry kissed him slowly – softly – so softly that it made Zayn sigh into his mouth when Harry parted his lips and their tongues finally touched.

Zayn had to let go of his cigarette then, dropping it out of the car window as he reached for Harry’s face. That made Harry sigh into his mouth, and even that was soft, like a tickle in the back of his throat as Harry’s tongue curled around his. And there was a rhythm to it that reminded him of being in Australia the month before and the gentle bob of the yacht as Zayn laid back and watched Harry squinting into the sun, the water dripping from the ends of his hair and down his cheeks. Zayn didn’t think he could do that, either – get on the yacht – but he did, and it was one of the best days of his life. So, later, when he was in the booth, he looked at Harry and when he smiled, he hit the note.

 

+++

 

Maybe he’s procrastinating or maybe he just doesn’t trust himself not to make a run for it if he goes back into the car park, but Zayn takes the stairs to the first floor. He should have taken the lift, though, because he gets hopelessly lost and walks up and down half a dozen corridors, past harassed nurses and worn out patients rolling their IV stands with them to the bathroom, before he realises that he isn’t even on the right wing.

He eventually admits defeat and asks for directions, but when he finally sees the sign to the ICU, he has to fight the urge to turn and run. He stops for a second, closing his eyes and pressing his back to the wall as he takes a deep breath. His hands ball into fists in the pockets of his hoodie as he thinks of Harry, of his unruly hair and bright laugh, and the thought of seeing him lying lifeless on a hospital bed is excruciating. But then he thinks about how scared Harry must be and all of a sudden he’s walking again, around the corner and towards the waiting room, his bones shivering with each step.

The first person Zayn sees is Simon and he doesn’t know why, but he didn’t think he’d be there, so feels a fresh punch of panic. Simon’s pacing up and down the corridor as he talks to someone on his mobile and he looks so worried that Zayn almost gives into the urge to turn and run again. But then Simon looks up and when he sees him, he holds up his hand as if he knows that Zayn’s considering legging it and starts walking towards him. He ends the call and when he gets to Zayn, he pulls him into a hug, patting him hard on the back.

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says with a sniff, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Simon puts his arm around Zayn’s shoulders. ‘Do you know what’s going on?’

Zayn shakes his head. ‘I don’t even know what happened.’

‘I don’t know much, either. I just know that there was a scuffle with the paps as Harry was leaving Mahiki last night and he got hit by a black cab.’ Simon must feel Zayn sag because he holds him closer. ‘He’s going to be okay,’ he says, lowering his voice.

‘How do you know, though?’

‘Because he has to be.’

Zayn nods and wipes his nose again. ‘Can I see him?’

‘He’s in surgery.’

Zayn’s heart stops. ‘What for?’

‘They won’t tell us much because we’re not family, just that he’s in surgery, but they’re all on their way.’ He checks his watch. ‘Gemma just texted to say that they should be here in about an hour so we’ll know more then.’

‘Where’s Niall?’

‘Paul’s gone to get him.’

Zayn blinks at him. ‘From Ireland?’

‘No. No. He was in London last night.’

‘Okay.’ Zayn nods. ‘So what do we do?’

Simon gestures at the waiting room. ‘We wait.’

When he opens the door for Zayn, the first person he sees is Louis, who’s sitting in the corner, drinking a cup of tea from one of those flimsy vending machine cups. He gives Zayn a filthy look and looks away, his jaw clicking as he fusses over his hair. If it was any other day, it might have hurt, but Zayn doesn’t have the will to care about anyone other than Harry. Until he sees Nick, that is, and his heart starts _thumping_.

‘‘The fuck are you doing here?’ he spits, pulling away from Simon.

‘I’m so sorry, Zayn,’ Nick says, standing up.

Simon doesn’t let him finish. ‘You need to leave,’ he tells him, pointing at Nick, then at the door, and as soon as he does, Louis is on his feet.

‘What did you do?’ he says, suddenly in Nick’s face and Zayn’ll be fucked if that isn’t Louis, furious at him one minute then ready to throw down for him the next. It’s easy to forget that sometimes, when Louis’ being a surly asshole, how _fiercely_ loyal he is, but Zayn knows that in that moment, it’s forgotten as Louis squares up to Nick.

‘It wasn’t me, Lou. It was Harry.’

‘You’re a fucking liar,’ Zayn tells him, stepping forward, but then Simon’s arm is around him, tugging him back. ‘You were the one feeding him shots all night!’

Louis looks horrified. ‘You were at Mahiki last night?’

‘It wasn’t my fault, Lou.’

Nick puts his hands up and Zayn watches the colour drain from Louis’ cheeks as he turns to look at him. ‘What did he do?’ When Zayn bites his lip and shakes his head, Louis turns to Nick again. ‘What the fuck did you do?’ he asks, his voice not as steady.

But before Nick can answer, a woman stands up.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, and when Zayn turns to look at her, he has to look away again because she looks exhausted, the skin around her eyes raw from crying and a tissue balled in her fist. ‘Can you do this somewhere else? My husband’s just died and I need a minute of quiet to catch my breath before I have to go in there and say goodbye.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Zayn says, his cheeks burning, and when he looks down at the little boy crying in the seat next to hers, he’s sure he’s going to be sick again.

Simon herds them out into the corridor as Niall comes running around the corner, followed by Paul. ‘I turned my phone off,’ he says, out of breath, his face red.

Louis doesn’t even see him as he shoves Nick. ‘What did you do?’

‘You need to leave,’ Simon tells him again, getting between them as Liam runs towards them, the tea from the plastic cups he’s holding spilling over his knuckles.

Then Zayn’s surrounded, Niall asking him what’s going on and Louis tugging at the front of his hoodie, trying to get Zayn to look at him as he asks what happened at Mahiki, but Zayn can’t take his eyes off Nick who doesn’t look sorry in the slightest.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he says, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Harry’s my friend and I have as much right to be here as anyone.’

‘Fine. I’ll go,’ Zayn says, shrugging Louis off and walking up the corridor. He hears footsteps behind him, but doesn’t turn around. ‘Liam, don’t.’

He doesn’t.

 

+++

 

Zayn walks and keeps walking until he runs out of corridor then turns and walks down another then another and another until he finds himself outside the hospital chapel. An hour ago, he would have said it was fate, but then Louis swept into his room and pulled the Earth from under his feet so he doesn’t know what he believes in any more.

He used to believe in fate. It was something he thought about a lot, something he tried to talk to Harry about last year, on a flight to Connecticut. They were somewhere over the Atlantic and it was so quiet, the lights in the cabin dimmed while everyone slept soundly, that Zayn kept telling himself to stop worrying and enjoy it because, as Paul reminded them before they took off, it was the last moment of quiet they’d have for a while. As soon as they landed, they’d be back on the tour bus and they wouldn’t catch their breath again for weeks, so Zayn told Harry to go to sleep. He obviously needed to, his eyes half-closed and his story about Lux more rambly than usual, but he wouldn’t because Zayn can’t sleep on planes. He does sometimes, when he’s so exhausted that his body literally _shuts down_ , but most of the time he’s so scared that the plane’s going to snap in two and fall out of the sky (cheers Lost) that there’s no chance of sleep. But Harry was trying to stay awake with him and even though Zayn told him that he didn’t have to, he kind of liked it, having Harry to himself while everyone snored around them. So when Harry finished his story about Lux and started tracing the lines on Zayn’s palm with the tip of his finger, Zayn looked at him and said, ‘What if I hadn’t bottled it?’

‘Bottled what?’ Harry asked without looking up as he compared their love lines.

‘My first X Factor audition. What if I hadn’t bottled it and went through with it?’

Harry looked up at him with a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

Zayn leaned in so their foreheads were touching. ‘What if we’d never met?’

He felt Harry blink a few times before he pressed his palm to Zayn’s and when their fingers threaded together, Zayn kissed him gently on the mouth. He waited a moment, his gaze flicking across the cabin to check that everyone was still asleep then kissed him again and when he did, Harry’s other hand slid over Zayn’s hip and under his hoodie. Zayn hesitated, opening his eyes to check that no one was watching as Harry tucked his fingers under the waistband of his underwear, seeking out the small patch of warm skin, but before Zayn kissed him again, Harry pulled his hand away and sat back.

‘Please,’ he breathed, his eyelashes fluttering as he swept the pad of his thumb along Zayn’s bottom lip. ‘Can you just be with me for a minute?’

Zayn frowned at him. ‘I am here.’

‘You’re kissing me with one eye open.’

‘But what if someone sees?’

Harry rolled his eyes, pulling up Zayn’s hoodie. ‘There,’ he said, doing the same with his own. ‘Now we’re invisible.’

Zayn chuckled softly, closing his eyes and kissing him again. He didn’t know why he was so nervous; he and Harry hadn’t stopped kissing since that day in Stockholm. As soon as they were alone for more than minute, Harry would reach for him or Zayn would gesture at him to come to him then they’d be kissing deeply. The trouble was: they were rarely left alone for more than minute so Harry was right, he did always kiss him with one eye open, scared that one of the lads would barrel into the kitchen to ask if they were making tea or that Paul would come looking for them. So Zayn took advantage of the few minutes of privacy and kissed him back. Then all he could hear was the sound of the plane and Harry’s breathing shift as Zayn slipped his tongue into his mouth.

As he sits on one of the pale wooden pews he could be back on that plane. The hospital chapel isn’t much bigger and it’s just as quiet, Zayn the only one in there as he puts his hands in his lap and looks up at the round stained glass window. He can hear the rain, which is still hysterical, but the sunlight is trying to push through the coloured glass giving everything a bluish tinge, and it’s kind of nice, as though he’s under water.

He’s not sure what he should do, if he should get on his knees and say a prayer or if it’s okay to just sit there until he’s caught his breath, and looks towards the altar. Actually, it’s not an altar, it’s just a table with a white cloth over it and he’s surprised. He thought the chapel would be more church-y, but there’s no cross, no candles to light, no smell of lilies. It’s probably to make everyone feel comfortable and it works, because he feels the muscles in his shoulders relax as he closes his eyes and sucks in a breath.

But then he hears the pew creak and his shoulders jump up again as he opens his eyes to find a middle-aged man with hair the colour of boot polish sitting next to him. Zayn waits to see a flicker of recognition cross his face – for him to blink slowly or lift his eyebrows, just for a second – but he obviously doesn’t know who he is and that should make Zayn feel better, but then he sees his white dogcollar and his stomach knots.

‘I’m Muslim,’ Zayn says, looking away.

‘That’s okay,’ he says and he’s Irish, his voice much softer than Zayn expected given how big he is, the sharp lines of his black suit jacket making him look even bigger. He kind of reminds him of Paul and that should make him feel better, but it doesn’t.

‘I know it is,’ Zayn tells him.

‘I mean, if you want to talk, you-’

Zayn raises his hand. ‘I don’t.’

‘If you do, I’m Alan.’ Zayn doesn’t look at him, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees, but the priest pushes on. ‘What’s your name, son?’

He had no intention of telling him, but being called son makes something in him give way. ‘Zayn,’ he says, brushing at an invisible piece of fluff on his jeans.

‘Is there someone you’re worried about, Zayn?’

He tries to say Harry’s name but can’t, so looks at his hands and nods.

‘Someone you care about?’

He nods again.

‘Do you want to tell me their name?’

‘Harry,’ he says, but his voice cracks between the Rs, splitting his name in two.

‘Where is Harry now?’

‘Surgery.’

‘Would you mind if I prayed for Harry?’

Zayn shakes his head and it sends a tear spilling down his cheek. He catches it with his fingers then wipes his hand on his jeans.

‘Is Harry a friend?’

‘My boyfriend,’ he says, and if Harry was there he’d laugh.

It’s just like Zayn to say it to a stranger before he says it to him.

When he lifts his chin to look at the priest, he expects to find him frowning, but he’s unmoved, his face as kind as it was when he first sat next to him. It’s enough to send another tear down Zayn's cheek and it’s all he can do not to put his head in his lap and sob.

‘Do you want to tell me a little about Harry?’

Zayn clears his throat, his right leg bouncing. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘How did you meet?’

He rubs his face with his hands, hiding his sudden smile. ‘At work.’

‘What’s Harry like?’

‘He’s-’ Zayn has to stop as his heart shivers. ‘There’s no one like Harry,’ he says and he can’t hide that smile. ‘Everyone loves him. He’s this ball of light and laughter. When he’s in a room, you just want to be near him. Everybody wants a piece of him so I’m lucky to-’ He stops as his heart shivers again. ‘I’m lucky to know him like that.’

The priest nods.

‘Not like that.’ Zayn shakes his head, the tops of his ears burning. ‘I mean, to have a piece for myself, y’know?’ The priest nods again. ‘’Cos above anything, he’s my friend. Like this morning, when I found out what happened, I was so scared that my instinct was to phone him.’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘How dumb is that?’

‘That isn’t at all, Zayn.’

‘I just keep thinking of all the things we didn’t do.’ Zayn’s right leg is still bouncing and he makes it stop. ‘Of all the swimming pools I wouldn’t jump in and that time we were at the Eiffel Tower and he wanted to kiss me, but I wouldn’t let him because I was scared and I should have.’ His leg starts bouncing again and he can’t stop it this time. ‘And I should have because I wasn’t even scared. Now I’m scared. This is scared and I should have done those things because I don’t know what I’m going to do if he-’

Zayn can’t finish the sentence and closes his eyes.

‘Do you love him?’

He nods, not bothering to catch the tear this time.

‘Have you told him?’

Zayn chuckles as he thinks about the first time he said it. It’s hardly a story for the grandkids – and not one he intends to share with a priest – but it is what it is. It wasn’t long after that night on the plane and he doesn’t know if kissing Harry like that, in the open where they could have been caught, made him braver or more desperate (it was probably a little of both), but it was as if they crossed a line and had to keep going.

It was _unbearable_. Before Zayn got on that plane, all he could think about was touching Harry, of what sound he’d make if he licked a line up the crease in his back or if he could hold onto both of his wrists with one hand. But by the time they landed, _want_ became _need_ and he had to ball his hands into fists to stop himself touching Harry every time he saw him. Even the most innocent gesture, something Zayn had always done, like fixing the collar of Harry’s shirt, which he must have done _dozens_ of times, suddenly became something illicit. His fingers would linger a beat longer than they normally would as his gaze dipped and Harry’s lifted and it would be enough to make Zayn’s heart punch at his ribs as he wondered if the other lads could see. He was sure they could, that it was haemorrhaging out of him, all of these feelings that he had no control over the moment Harry stepped into his sight line and they _spilled_ out of him.

Harry must have felt the same because his hand began to stray under the table at dinner, seeking out Zayn’s, or he’d follow him when he went for a cigarette and, when they’d found a discrete corner, they’d kiss until Zayn forgot that he needed one. Then, when that wasn’t enough, they’d wait until everyone was asleep and Zayn would climb into Harry’s bunk on the bus. They’d kiss quietly, and when they couldn’t, Zayn would pull the duvet over them to muffle the gasps they couldn’t hold in and the sound of their hands blindly exploring bodies that were brand new yet familiar, all at once.

For a long time they just kissed, talked and giggled and kissed all night until they were breathless and Zayn’s mouth felt empty without the slow curl of Harry’s tongue in it. The next day they would be useless, clumsy and slightly hysterical if one of them fell over or forgot the words in sound check. Liam would frown and ask them how hungover they were, which would only make them more hysterical. So by the time they left Canada, Zayn was pretty sure Liam thought they were developing a drink problem.

Paul must have as well because he had a word with them before they got to Detroit. They weren’t allowed to go to the club with the other lads that night, which, in the end, was no punishment at all because they got to spend an entire evening together, uninterrupted, and it was magnificent. They ate room service in bed then kissed with the lights on, the huge white bed like a _field_ compared to Harry’s narrow bunk. They had room to undress, Harry taking his time as he unbuttoned Zayn’s shirt, kissing each patch of skin he revealed – button, kiss, button, kiss – eight times until he opened Zayn’s shirt as though he was throwing open the curtains on a sunny morning. Then Harry’s mouth was on him and as much as Zayn wanted to touch him before then, to take him in his mouth and feel the heat of him on his tongue, he was glad they waited because if they’d done it in a club toilet or in Harry’s bunk, they would’ve robbed one another of that moment. Of being able to touch each other and sigh without having to hold it in.

That’s what startled Zayn most of all. Not the newness of it, the surprise of being pinned to the bed by Harry who was heavy and solid with big hands and an impatient tongue, but how _different_ it was. Most girls just kissed in a straight line from his throat to his belt buckle, but Harry kissed him like he was trying to learn his skin, to count each of his chocolate coloured moles and trace the outline of his tattoos before licking long, hot stripes along his collarbones. And his hands were everywhere, his fingers tripping down his ribs before holding his wrists to the bed as he lapped at his nipples until Zayn’s back was arching off the bed. But when they moved to Zayn’s belt, Harry stopped and looked at him, his eyelashes batting, and Harry had never looked at him like that, like he had no idea where they were going but he couldn’t wait to get there. For the second time that night, Zayn was glad they waited, that he didn’t give in to Harry’s pleas to suck him off in the toilet of whatever club they were in because he’ll never forget that look. He didn’t want Harry to look at anyone but him like that again.

Zayn didn’t say it out loud, but he knew then that he loved Harry. Loved him so much that he would have let him do anything to him. So he nodded and Harry unbuckled his belt with an adolescent impatience Zayn had forgotten about. Then his fingers were on him, Harry’s lips parted as he looked down to watch his hand working Zayn’s erection. ‘Am I doing it right?’ he asked between quick pants, but Zayn didn’t have the strength to tell him that he couldn’t do it wrong as he came with a gasp of delight.

With that Zayn was gone. He wanted everything. _All_ of it. Every fucking bit of him. He knew that they should slow down – be careful – but he couldn’t. It became harder and harder to be discrete when Harry reached back when they were on stage to cup the front of his jeans or looked at him across a crowded club with a slow lick of the lips. And Harry knew exactly what was doing. ‘Come on,’ he’d say with a wicked laugh when Zayn grabbed his arm and pulled him off the dance floor into the nearest disabled toilet, licking his way into Zayn’s mouth before the door had closed behind them.

‘M’gonna fuck you like this,’ Zayn would murmur, holding Harry’s head still as he thrust into his mouth, and he wouldn’t know that he’d said it out loud until Harry told him to when he had to stop for breath. ‘Now,’ he’d say between wet, desperate gasps, eyelashes fluttering, before Zayn took his head in his hands and fucked into his mouth again. Or he’d say it a few minutes later, when Zayn had him beant over the sink, Harry’s cheek pressed to the mirror, his breath ghosting against the filthy glass as Zayn worked two fingers into him. ‘Now?’ Zayn would ask with a smirk, licking the back of his neck as he reached for Harry’s cock with his other hand. And Harry would say, ‘Now’ – _Now. Now. Now_. _Now_ – until his hips bucked and he came over Zayn’s knuckles.

 _Now_ didn’t happen for a few weeks, though, not until they had the chance to do it in a bed, not in a toilet or in Harry’s bunk, the duvet over them as Zayn giggled and shushed him every time he groaned. That’s the first time Harry said it – I love you – the first time Zayn eased into him. Harry’s toes curled as he did and he made this sound, this sound Zayn had never heard before and it was _exquisite_. Girls don’t make that sound – not a breathy moan, somewhere between a grunt and gasp – and Zayn doesn’t know how he didn’t lose it, especially when he asked Harry if he wanted him to stop and Harry closed his eyes and told him not to, his hands fisting in the sheet under him.

When Zayn eased his hips back and inched into him again, Harry said it again – _Oh, God, I love you, Zayn_ – but Zayn didn’t think anything of it because Harry always said stuff like that. The last time Zayn let him fuck his mouth, Harry kept saying, _You’re the only one, Zayn_ over and over as he pulled at his hair, which eventually became _Only you_ then _you, you, you_ with each thrust until he came with a grunt. So Zayn thought it was the same thing, too distracted to think much more about it because he’d never felt that way about _anyone_. He'd never wanted someone so much that he _ached_ for them, wanted them even when he was with them, when they were under him, eyes closed and lips wet.

So Zayn ignored it and fucked him, fucked him until he was babbling and rag doll limp, his hands clutching Zayn’s elbows, and he almost had to look away because the look on Harry’s face would send him mad if he let it. No one’s ever known him like Harry. He doesn’t just know what Zayn’s scared of and what he dreams about, but he balances him out – fills in his gaps. Where Zayn’s suspicious, Harry’s fearless, and where Zayn’s quiet, everyone knows when Harry is in the room. But it works both ways because Zayn’s taught Harry not to give a piece of himself to everyone he meets and showed him the joy of staying still, of long slow kisses while they play with each other’s hands. And Zayn loves that, loves all the secret sounds and smiles that are just for him, that he can think about every time he walks into a room to find Harry laughing with Louis or on the phone to Nick.

They don’t know him like Zayn does. He _has_ him. Zayn can unravel him with a look that will make Harry sink to his knees, his eyes wet. Harry can do the same to him and is that love? The power to complete someone and break them to pieces, all at once. When Harry told him that he loved him – _really_ told him, later that night, when Zayn was about to drift off to sleep – it kind of felt like he might break to pieces as he opened his eyes to look at him. Harry said it again – _I love you, you know?_ – his knuckle grazing the curve of Zayn’s jaw, and Zayn thought that his heart was going to explode.

‘I love you, too,’ he breathed.

Harry looked startled. ‘You said it!’

‘What?’ Zayn giggled as Harry grabbed him and peppered his face with kisses.

‘Nick said you wouldn’t!’

Zayn blinked at him. ‘Nick?’

‘Yeah, he owes me a tenner!’

That’s when Zayn felt his heart, felt the first piece break away.

‘Why are you talking to Nick Grimshaw about us?’

‘He’s my best friend.’ Harry shrugged sheepishly. ‘I tell him everything.’

‘I thought Louis was your best friend?’

Actually, Zayn thought _he_ was Harry’s best friend.

Zayn propped himself up on his elbows with a frown. ‘So what did you tell him?’

‘Nothing.’ He wouldn’t look at him so Zayn arched an eyebrow. ‘I was worried,’ Harry relented with a huff. ‘I’ve never done this. I just needed someone to talk to.’

That knocked the air right out of him and Zayn had to sit up as he felt another piece of his heart snap off.

‘Neither have I, Harry. Why didn’t you talk to me?’

‘What’s the big deal? He just gave me some advice.’

That explained why Harry was so prepared. He had lube and two different types of condoms and even knew what position he wanted to do it in (on his back, so he could look at Zayn, he said). The thought that Nick suggested it, made his stomach lurch.

‘I was scared,’ Harry said quietly, sitting up and kissing Zayn’s shoulder.

 _I was, too_ , Zayn almost said, but kept it to himself for the first time in months.

‘It was just practical stuff.’ Harry kissed his shoulder again. ‘What goes where.’

‘And that I wouldn’t tell you that I loved you.’

Harry pressed his forehead to his shoulder. Zayn could feel his eyelashes against his skin and it brought tears to his eyes. ‘It sounds so bad when you say it like that.’

‘How should I say it, then, Harry?’

‘I dunno.’ He sat back with a sigh. ‘He just said that you were too straight to say something like that.’

‘And who the fuck are you all of a sudden?’ Zayn turned his head to look over his shoulder at him. ‘Neil Patrick Harris?’

‘No, I’m just saying-’

‘What are you saying, Harry? That I’m not gay enough for you?’

‘No. I-’

Zayn didn’t wait for him to finish and ripped the sheet back, his cheeks stinging. He marched around the bed towards the bathroom, wishing the door had a lock as he kicked it shut behind him and turned on the shower.

‘I think you should sleep in your room tonight,’ he told Harry when he followed him in. But of course he didn’t listen and climbed into the tub as Zayn did.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said over the hiss of the shower, standing behind him and wrapping his arms around his chest. ‘Tonight was so perfect and I messed it up.’

‘Harry, don’t,’ Zayn told him when he pressed his cheek to his shoulder.

‘No. _Please_. Just listen: I’m sorry. I always do this. I-’

Zayn didn’t let him finish. ‘Please, Harry, just go. I don’t want to say something I can’t take back,’ he warned, trying to shrug him off as he stuck his face under the spray of the shower.

Harry held on tighter. ‘No. Just listen: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.’

Zayn lost his temper then, turning around to shove him, his heart suddenly in bits, like a scrap of paper Harry had torn to pieces and thrown in the air.

‘You _shouldn’t_ have told me?’ he spat. ‘What else haven’t you told me?’

‘No.’ Harry covered his face with his hands. ‘This is coming out all wrong.’

‘I think you should go.’

Zayn turned to reach for the soap, but Harry grabbed his arm before he could.

‘Don’t do this.’ Harry’s fingers tightened around his arm, pulling Zayn closer to whisper it like a secret. ‘This is what I do. You know that. You know that I don’t think before I speak and I get drunk and behave like an asshole and I’m sorry, but I never said that I was perfect and you are the _one person_ I didn’t have to be perfect for.’

Zayn pulled away and shook his head. ‘I think we should just slow it down.’

‘No!’ Harry said through his teeth. ‘You just told me that you loved me and you can’t take it back!’ He pointed at him, his hand shaking. ‘You can’t take it back!’

Zayn knew that Harry was thinking about his father and when he saw the tears in his eyes, Zayn felt a punch of protectiveness so intense, it obliterated everything else he was feeling and he pulled Harry into him, kissing the top of his head.

‘Say it again,’ Harry said, wrapping his arms around him.

Harry didn’t let go until he did and as Zayn sat in the chapel next to the priest, thinking of how tightly he held him, he realised that it wasn’t just the first time he told Harry that he loved him, it was also the first time he let Nick come between them.

 

+++

 

As he’s walking back towards the ICU, Zayn sees a bed being wheeled out of the lift and his heart thumps ominously, as if it knows before he does that it’s Harry. He can’t see him, just the huddle of people around the bed in blue scrubs steering it around the corner, but they part for long enough to let Zayn see a flash of brown hair then he’s running. He knows Harry can’t hear him, but he still calls out his name and as soon as he does, the door to the waiting room swings open and Louis runs out. He stops in the middle of the corridor when he sees the bed approaching and when his eyes widen and his lips part, Zayn’s legs almost give way at the thought of what Harry looks like.

‘Lou, is he okay?’ he asks, as he catches up with the bed, but Louis doesn’t move, his gaze following it as the bed passes him and stops at the double doors into the ITU.

‘Please,’ Zayn says to the woman with red hair who’s at the head of the bed. She turns and holds her arm out to stop him getting any closer and Zayn isn’t sure if he should be grateful as he glances back at Louis, who looks so pale, Zayn’s sure that he’s going to have to run over and catch him in a second. ‘Please. Is he okay?’

She doesn’t answer, just eyes Louis as he comes to stand next to him.

‘When can we see him?’ Louis asks, and he sounds tiny, like a little boy.

She shakes her head as the doors open. ‘Not until his family gets here.’

‘We are his family,’ Louis says with a frown.

Zayn reaches for the sleeve of his shirt when he steps forward. ‘It’s okay, Lou.’

‘No it’s not okay. No one will tell us anything.’

‘Sorry.’ The woman shakes her head as they begin pushing the bed into the ITU.

Louis follows, ignoring her when she tells him to keep back. ‘They haven’t spent a day apart in over a year.’ He points back at Zayn. ‘He distracts him when he has to have an injection and brings him a cup of tea every morning. If that isn’t family, what is?’

She apologises again and when the bed disappears through the double doors, Zayn has to grab Louis’ sleeve to stop him following.

‘Allow it, Lou. She’s just doing her job.’

He frowns at him. ‘But it’s not fair.’

‘I know.’

‘Why won’t they tell us anything?’

‘I don’t know.’

Louis turns to stare at the doors, hands on his hips, and Zayn tugs on his shirt.

‘Come on. Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

‘No I don’t want any more fucking tea,’ he spits, then covers his face with his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says through his fingers. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘‘S’alright.’

‘No it’s not alright.’ Louis shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips again. ‘I’m being such a shit to you today and you don’t fucking need it.’

Zayn waits for him to look up then half-smiles. ‘That’s two apologies in one day, Lou. That must be some sort of record.’

‘I know. Don’t tell, Eleanor.’

Zayn chuckles, but the corners of Louis’ mouth fall.

‘He called me last night.’

Zayn’s breath catches in his throat. ‘Who?’

‘Harry.’

‘When?’

‘When he was leaving Mahiki.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I rejected the call because I was with El.’

Louis looks at his feet, but before he does, Zayn sees his chin tremor and his legs suddenly don’t feel as steady because he didn’t think it was possible for the human body to convey so much pain in such a tiny gesture. Zayn wants to reach for him, to hug him and tell him that it’s okay, but everything about Louis – the way he steps back when he dips his head, how his shoulders tighten into a straight line when he digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans – says, _Don’t touch me_ so Zayn just shakes his head.

‘Lou, it’s not your fault-’

‘Don’t, Zayn,’ he says, stopping to rub his lips together. ‘Don’t be nice to me. I can’t bear it. I blamed you so I wouldn’t feel bad and that’s just so-’

When he shakes his head, Zayn doesn’t care and pulls him into a hug. Louis tenses before he gives into it, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his cheek to his shoulder. They stand like that for a few minutes, listening to Simon somewhere in the corridor, talking on his phone, and when Louis’ stops shaking, he steps back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, wiping his cheeks with the cuff of his denim shirt, and the look of absolute woe on his face – of guilt and fear and confusion – makes Zayn’s heart soften like warm wax. ‘I’ve been such an asshole to you, but Harry’s my best mate, y’know?’ He looks up and Zayn nods. ‘I tell him everything, but he tells you everything and that’s so hard.’ He shakes his head. ‘I know that makes no sense.’

Actually, it does, Zayn realises as he thinks of Nick and feels his heart harden again. Then Zayn feels his chin tremor and he wonders if Louis sees it as he thinks of last night, of Mahiki and how angry Harry was. Zayn had never seen him like that. He’d seen him have a strop when he was tired, but he didn’t often lose his temper and when he did it was quick and fierce. Harry would swear and storm off, making sure he slammed the door behind him when he did. But as quickly as it came, it would be over, so if Zayn left him alone, he’d shuffle back a few minutes later, offering to make a cup of tea, and they would be laughing again by the time the kettle boiled. But last night he was angry – really angry, somewhere deep in his bones – and it frightened Zayn. Harry didn’t reach for him, he grabbed him – _pinched_ him – his eyes dark and his fingers digging into him so hard the tops of Zayn’s arms are still tender. And that’s nothing new, Zayn’s done the same in the past, his fingernails leaving tiny cuts on Harry’s hips or his teeth nipping his bottom lip, making it redder than usual. But last night, Harry didn’t hold him, he _held on_.

There’s a difference.

‘I wasn’t even supposed to see him last night,’ Zayn says at last, and he doesn’t know why he can’t say his name, but he suddenly can’t say it and everything else. Louis looks up and waits for him to go on as Zayn slides his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. ‘My mum’s down so he said he’d pick me up tomorrow on the way to the press conference,’ he stops and frowns as he wonders what’s going to happen to that, then shakes his head. ‘Anyway, so at about ten o’clock, I was at home, on the sofa, watching a film with my mum, and Harry calls, telling me to come to Mahiki.’

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he knew Harry would call. Louis’ right, they haven’t spent a day apart since that rainy afternoon in Stockholm, even if they only see each other for a few minutes. It’s not a record either of them are willing to break so Zayn knew Harry would call. He always does, usually as he’s leaving a club, when he’s tipsy and playful and can’t wait until the next day to see him. Zayn’ll tease him about it, tell him that he’s not a booty call, but he still spends the twenty minutes Harry makes him wait changing the sheets and putting on aftershave, so by the time he gets to his house, Zayn’s half-hard and running for the door. Last week, Harry was the last one in the cab to be dropped off and made Zayn wait almost an hour, so when he finally got there, Zayn made suck him off on the doormat. Harry didn’t even have a chance to let go of his phone. So Zayn fully expected him to call and for them to end up doing it on the living room floor so they didn’t wake his mother, but he didn’t think he’d call so soon.

Zayn lifts his chin to look at Louis and shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t have gone-’

‘Me, either,’ he interrupts. ‘I hate Mahiki. It’s full of twats.’

‘Right? But he was drunk off his arse. Like _shitfaced_. He couldn’t speak.’

‘Why?’

‘He and Nick were drinking in Regent's Park all day.’

Louis rolls his eyes.

‘So I went to bring him home, but when I got there, he didn’t even say hello-’

Zayn has to stop, his throat tightening as he remembers finding him on the dance floor, a drink in each hand. When Harry fell against him with a laugh, his eyes closed and his mouth open so wide he could see his teeth, Zayn laughed, too, because he’s a pain in the arse, but he loves drunk Harry. He spills drinks and falls over and won’t leave because he’s having a meaningful conversation with a stranger in the toilet, but he’s still funny and charming and so adorable, especially when Zayn tries to put him to bed and he won’t let go of his neck. But last night he was about four shots past that point and when he saw Zayn, he dropped the drinks in his hands – literally _dropped_ them so they landed on the dance floor at their feet in a splash of glass and ice – and reached for him.

‘Fucking kiss me,’ he said, smashing his mouth against his so hard Zayn tasted blood as his teeth scraped the inside of his top lip.

‘Jesus, Harry,’ he yelped, stepping back, his hand to his mouth.

Harry laughed – loud and obnoxious – then reached for him again, his fingers curling around the tops of his arms and digging in as he tilted his head and bit Zayn’s neck. Zayn yelped again, trying to shrug him off, but he wouldn’t let go as he pressed his mouth to his ear. ‘I want you so much,’ he panted, teeth tugging at Zayn’s earlobe. ‘I want you so much that I just wanna fucking eat you. I wanna eat you up.’

‘I know,’ he said, rubbing Harry’s back with his hand. And he got that – he did – but the dance floor was _packed_ so when Zayn looked up to see the mobiles phones popping up around them like meerkats, he hoped that they’d all just think Harry was drunk and being clingy, otherwise Simon would turn their balls into cufflinks.

Harry didn’t resist when Zayn led him off the dance floor, standing behind him and slinging his arm around Zayn’s neck. ‘You gonna fuck me?’ he breathed into his ear, grinding against him. ‘You gonna fuck me like you did last night?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Zayn said, dipping his head and leading ( _dragging_ , actually) him through the knot of people on the dance floor.

‘Remember last night?’ Harry smiled against his ear, his breath hot and thick. ‘Remember how you held me down? I have carpet burns on my shoulder blades.’

Zayn remembered, his cock twitching at the memory of Harry on his back on the living room floor, ankles on his shoulders and his mouth kissed an obscene shade of red.

‘Do you think your mum heard?’

‘Probably,’ Zayn said, kissing his arm as he thought about how Harry tried to sneak out this morning, the pair of them giggling as Harry looked for his other shoe. Then the kiss they had by the front door when Harry dropped both of them and woke her up anyway.

‘It’s been forever since you fucked me somewhere like this,’ Harry said, reaching around to cup the front of Zayn’s jeans. ‘Remember that club in Florida?’

‘Easy, cupcake,’ he said, moving his hand. ‘Save it for when we get home.’

‘No _now_ ,’ Harry whined, his arm tightening around Zayn’s neck, digging painfully into his windpipe as Harry pulled him closer.

‘Harry,’ Zayn gasped, curling his fingers around Harry’s wrist, trying to tug it away, but he wouldn’t budge.

‘Now.’

Zayn could feel that he was hard and the promise of it, of fucking drunk Harry who was usually a delicious mix of hopelessly pliant and utterly shameless, made it very hard to steer him towards the door, but Zayn tried.

‘Let’s see if we can make it up the stairs tonight.’ He pressed another kiss to his arm but Harry pulled away so suddenly, Zayn had to turn and grab his wrist before he landed on someone’s table.

‘No!’ Harry pointed at the floor. ‘Here!’

Zayn apologised to the people at the table then slung his arm around his waist. He was a little more forceful with him as he walked him towards the door and managed to get Harry out of the bar, but just when the street was insight, he pulled away.

‘Why don’t you want me?’ he asked, swaying dangerously toward a potted fern.

‘What are you on about?’ Zayn asked, pulling him away from it.

‘Why don’t you want me?’

Zayn’s gaze flicked to the door and the queue of people waiting to get in and he suddenly felt exhausted. He was having such a lovely evening with his mother, eating chow mein and watching a film about Jennifer Lopez adopting a kid from Ethiopia and he didn’t know how he got there and, more importantly, how he was going to get out.

He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Harry, please.’

‘Are you bored, is that what it is? Are you bored of me?’

Zayn lowers his voice, his eyes still on the door. ‘We had sex _this morning_.’

‘Yeah, before you snuck me out of your house.’

‘You wanted to go. You said that you didn’t want my mum seeing you.’

‘Cos I didn’t want to meet her like that.’

‘You’ve met my mother seven-hundred and thirteen times, Harry.’

‘Yeah, but not as your boyfriend.’

Zayn’s gaze flicked to the door again and he wanted to tell Harry to lower his voice, but he knew that would make him worse. ‘Fine,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Come home with me now. We can go for lunch tomorrow and do the whole introduction thing.’

‘No.’ Harry shook his head. ‘No.’

‘What do you want from me, Harry?’ he snapped, his cheeks stinging.

‘You!’ Harry roared, grabbing the front of his shirt. ‘You! I want everything, Zayn! Everything! I want your fucking eyelashes and your fucking fingernails!’

One of the bouncers looked over his shoulder at them and Zayn panicked, opening the door they were standing next to and shoving Harry through it. It was the back of the cloakroom and when Harry looked around at the rows of coats, his eyes lit up.

‘We’ve never done it in a cloakroom before,’ he said with a filthy smile, reaching for him, but Zayn pulled away.

‘What has gotten into you?’

Before Harry could answer, a woman with a neat black bob walked around one of the rails.

‘Um, hello?’ she said, her hands on her hips. ‘You can’t just come in here.’

Zayn apologised, telling her that they needed a minute as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and handed her whatever money was in there. He had no idea how much it was, but it was enough to make her arch an eyebrow and tuck it into her bra.

When she sauntered off again, Zayn nudged Harry against the wall with his hip.

‘What has gotten into you?’ he asked again, lowering his voice.

Harry pouted, obnoxious and adorable, all at once. ‘Nothing.’

‘You were fine this morning.’

‘Nick says-’

Zayn stepped back before he could finish, his hands balled into fists.

‘What the fuck have I told you about talking to Nick about us?’

‘Don’t tell me what to do! He’s my friend, I can tell him what I want.’

‘Okay.’ Zayn crossed his arms with a nod. ‘What does Nick have to say this time?’

Harry lifted his chin defiantly. ‘He said that you’re ashamed of me.’

‘Oh so now I’m _ashamed_.’ Zayn rolled his eyes so Harry didn’t know that he felt it like a punch in the jaw. ‘So last month when you didn’t go to that gig with him because you were in Paris with me I was controlling. And last week when I wouldn’t let him come over drunk at 3 a.m. I was jealous and now I’m ashamed. Okay, Harry.’

‘We’re hiding in the fucking cloakroom, Zayn!’

‘We’re hiding in the cloakroom because you’re behaving like a brat!’

‘See?’ Harry held his arms out. ‘You are ashamed of me!’

Zayn looked over the rail of coats at the cloakroom attendant who was standing by the window, looking bored, then lowered his voice. ‘I know we sneak around, but you and I are the worst kept secret ever.’ Harry turned his face away but Zayn followed, waiting until he looked at him. ‘Everyone I care about knows, even if they had to find out by walking in on us doing it on a chest of drawers. So if you want to do this, let’s do this, but don’t you dare fucking out me in the middle of a night club.’

‘If they all know, what does it matter where it happens?’

‘Because if we’re doing this, let’s do it on our terms.’

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘You’d never talk to Modest.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Zayn admitted. ‘But I would if you wanted to.’

‘Why don’t you want to?’

‘Because they’d do one of two things.’ Zayn counted them on his fingers. ‘They’d either kick us out of the group, or they’d make us hide it. I don’t want them controlling this. Being in a room with you and not being able to touch you is hard enough as it is without being told where to sit and where to stand and what to say.’

Harry bit his lip and pressed the medal on his necklace between his finger and thumb. ‘It’s not fair,’ he said with a defeated sigh. ‘I just want what Louis and El have.’

‘We have what they have.’

‘I can’t even take a photo of you.’

‘You take photos of us all the time.’

‘Yeah, but if I put one of them on _Instagram_ you’d shit yourself.’

‘So it doesn’t count if no one sees it?’

Harry looked away and shook his head. ‘I just want a normal relationship.’

Zayn stepped forward and put his hands on Harry’s hips. ‘I don’t want normal.’ He nudged him with his nose until Harry looked at him. ‘If I wanted normal, I would have stayed in Bradford and become a teacher and married a nice girl who could make gulab jamun. I want _this_. I want to sing and see the world and _you_ , you idiot.’

‘I want you, too. But why can’t I go to a club and kiss my boyfriend?’

Harry lifted his chin to look at him with a sad frown and Zayn didn’t think, just tilted his head and kissed him and when he pulled back, Harry blinked at him.

‘The attendant’s over there. What if she sees?’ he asked with a surprised gasp.

But Zayn just smiled and kissed him again, because he knew it was nothing to do with _Instagram_ photos or kissing on the middle of the dance floor, Harry just needed to know that Zayn would take a match to everything he had if he asked him to, and he would. He would. So he kissed him, carefully at first, then Harry started kissing him back and that was it, they were all over each other, a mess of hands and tongues as Zayn pinned Harry to the wall with his body.

It was moments like that, when they should stop – when they had to stop – and couldn’t that Zayn realised he had no control over any of it. He wanted to tell Harry that, tell him that he wasn’t ashamed, but he couldn’t stop. So Zayn tried to kiss it into him instead, into his mouth and skin and tried to leave finger-shaped bruises on his cheeks that spelt _MINE_ because it was nothing to do with being embarrassed and everything to do with being selfish. Zayn has to share Harry with everyone – _everyone_ , with Nick and Louis and complete strangers in the street who grab at him and pose for photographs with him as though he’s their boyfriend when Zayn won’t even let himself do that – and he can’t share him with anyone else.

He can’t.

He can’t.

‘Tell me if she’s looking,’ Zayn panted against his cheek, his hands on his belt.

It took Harry a moment to realise what he was saying, but when he did, he started shaking. ‘She’s right there,’ he whispered, getting on his tiptoes to peer over the rail of coats. But Zayn was already on his knees and Harry didn’t have time to stop himself and made the filthiest sound when Zayn took him in his mouth.

‘Oh God _fuck_ ,’ Harry whimpered one hand grabbing at Zayn’s shoulder before his brain engaged and he jammed his fist in his mouth. Not that Zayn could blame him, he knew Harry well enough to know what to do to get him from _What was I saying again?_ to _I’m gonna come in your mouth_ in about 0.3 seconds so he didn’t really stand a chance.

Zayn would have usually taken his time, teased him a little, waited until Harry was weak and babbling, his hands in Zayn’s hair, guiding him towards his cock, but he couldn’t wait because he didn’t know how else to show him that he loved him and needed him and _wanted_ him. Wanted him so much that he’d suck him off in the cloakroom of a club if that would convince him. So Zayn sucked him hard, his cheeks hollowed and his hands holding his hips still as Harry went limp against the wall. Sucked him quick and deep, so deep that he couldn’t breathe, the tip of his nose nestled in Harry’s pubic hair. He held him there until he felt him in his throat and the muscles in Harry’s thighs twitching against his shoulders then pulled back and with one more stroke – one more, one more, one more – Harry came, his whole body shuddering. Zayn reached for his hand as he did, but when Harry realised that Zayn was swallowing, he put both his hands in his hair and tugged on it until Zayn pulled back with a gasp.

Harry slid down the wall to join him on the floor, his top lip wet with sweat as he pulled Zayn into a long, deep kiss. He was as compliant as a kitten after that and when they went back out into the bar, he was back to the drunk Harry he knew – cheeky and clumsy and sneaking looks at Zayn from under his eyelashes like he used to when they first got together. He even agreed to leave, giggling at the promise of christening Zayn's new sofa, but as they were leaving, Nick stepped into their path.

‘Aw, look at you two. The happy couple.’ He stopped to take a sip from the thin black straw in his drink, his eyelashes batting and Zayn didn’t think it was possible to bat your eyelashes sarcastically, but apparently it is. ‘How much do I owe you, Harry? It was a tenner if he gave you a blow job and twenty if he fucked you, right?’

Zayn’s legs almost gave way, but he wouldn’t give Nick the satisfaction, so just smiled sweetly and walked away. Harry followed, trying to grab the back of Zayn’s shirt as he wove through the crowd, but didn’t get him to stop until they were almost at the door.

Zayn turned and frowned at him. 'This was a bet?'

‘Listen,’ he said, having to shout over the music.

‘No.’ Zayn shook his head and Harry looked stunned.

‘What?’

‘I’m done.’

Harry’s fingers curled into Zayn’s shirt, making the cotton stretch tight across his back. ‘Just listen.’

‘I know what you’re going to say, Harry. _It was just a joke. He didn’t mean it. He’s just trying to wind you up. Don’t let him get in your head_. Right?’

Harry blinked at him, his bottom lip shuddering. ‘It _was_ a joke.’

Zayn looked at the door, then back at him. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m not ashamed of you,’ he said and in the end, it was surprisingly easy to say out loud. If anything it was a relief, as though he’d been holding onto a breath for months and could finally let it go. ‘You are, and probably always will be, the only person I see when I walk into a room.’

‘No.’ Harry shook his head, his eyes wet, because he knew what Zayn was going to say before he said it, and that sent a fresh split down Zayn’s heart because only Harry knew him that well. ‘No. You have to give me a second chance. You have to.’

‘Why?’ Zayn shrugged. ‘If I make you feel like I’m ashamed of you?’

‘You don’t.’ Harry shook his head, a curl coming loose and falling onto his forehead like an upside down question mark. Zayn wanted to move it, but stopped himself.

‘I did half an hour ago, Harry.’

‘That was-’ He tugged at his shirt, blinking tears down his cheeks. ‘That was.’

‘That was goodbye.’

‘No.’ Harry said through his teeth when Zayn tried to walk away. ‘No.’

Zayn managed to pull away, but Harry grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and tugged him to him. ‘Harry,’ he said with a weary sigh. ‘I cannot love you any more than I do and it’s _exhausting_. I love with you every eyelash and every fingernail and if that isn’t enough then you have to let me go.’

He wouldn’t. ‘Just give me another chance.’

‘Why?’

Harry looks bewildered, as though it was obvious. ‘Because you love me.’

The _and you can’t take it back_ hung between them as they looked at one another.

‘But I’m not enough, am I? That’s the problem. You need everyone to love you, Harry, but I only need _you_ to love me. So if you need Louis’ approval and Nick’s approval and a million randoms on _Instagram_ ’s approval then this will never work because you will never be happy, Harry. I will never make you happy.’

‘No.’ Harry hugged him, pressing his cheek to his. ‘This can’t be it.’

But it was and it ended as quietly as it started, in a clubful of people who didn’t notice when Zayn walked away and Harry watched, the space between them suddenly impassable.

‘He’s gone,’ Louis says then and Zayn blinks at him a few times before he realises that he’s been staring at the door to the waiting room.

‘Nick?’

‘Yeah. He legged it as soon as your mum got here.’

‘Mum’s here?’

‘She’s just taken Liam and Niall to find some food.’

‘Is his family here yet?’

‘Gems just texted to say they’re fifteen minutes away.’

‘So it’s just you in there?’ Zayn crosses his arms and leans against the wall.

Louis does the same, letting his head fall against a notice about antibacterial hand gel on the wall between them. ‘Just me.’

‘What you been doing?’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Louis says, almost to himself, ‘about that day at boot camp, when we were about to go home and they wouldn’t let us.’ When he lifts his eyelashes to look at him, Zayn nods. ‘That was the last time I prayed, when we were walking back to the stage. I couldn’t even speak because I was praying that they’d made a mistake, that I was getting a second chance, y’know?’ Zayn knows. ‘And I got it. Look what happened?’ Zayn holds his breath because he knows what he’s going to say. ‘But what if we only get one big second chance like that and we used it up?’

Zayn looks over Louis’ shoulder at the double doors to the ITU then turns and presses his back against the wall. ‘I fucking hope not, Lou.’

 

+++

 

Zayn should stay. He wishes he was that guy. If Harry was there, he’d make everyone tea and distract them with another long-winded story, but Zayn’s instinct is to hide like an injured animal because if he sees Gemma or Anne crying, he’ll lose it and he can’t.

He can’t.

So he hides in the stairwell of the car park, chain smoking and playing with the laces on his DMs until the door swings open and Gemma tilts her head at him.

‘There you are,’ she says with a soft sigh.

‘Gem,’ he says, jumping to his feet as she walks towards him, tossing his cigarette away as though he’s been caught smoking behind the bike sheds.

She sits on the step and looks up, the skin under her eyes bruised from no sleep, and waits for him to sit next to her. When he does, she frowns at him.

‘Are you okay?’

He’s mortified. ‘Don’t worry about me. Are _you_ okay?’

‘I’m alright. A bit dazed.’

‘Are your mum and dad alright?’

‘Yeah, they’re much calmer now we’re here.’

Zayn holds his breath and he can feel the panic building and building as he waits for her to tell him about Harry. And he wants to know – _has_ to know – because with each passing minute what he’s imagining is getting worse and worse. But until he knows there’s hope and as long as there’s hope he won’t give into the panic that’s trying to pull him apart, bone by bone. Then she lifts her chin to look at him and his head swims as he hears the words _DON’T SAY IT_ playing in a loop in his head.

‘Harry’s going to be okay.’

The relief is devastating and Zayn covers his face with his hands and _weeps_. He tries not to – to suck it back in – because Gemma is Harry’s sister and this isn’t about him, but he can’t hold it in as something in him suddenly boils over, like milk in a pan.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says into his hands between sobs.

‘Don’t you dare apologise.’

Gemma puts her arm around him and pulls him into her and they sit like that for a while, her head on his shoulder as she waits for him to calm down. When he does, Zayn wipes his face with the sleeve of his hoodie and apologises again.

‘Don’t,’ she says, rubbing her head against his shoulder like a cat, like Harry does when he’s tired, and it almost makes him cry again. Then she takes something out of her pocket and when she holds up Harry’s Saint Christopher necklace, he does anyway.

‘Where did you get that?’ he asks with another sob, staring at it.

‘They had to take it off before he went into surgery,’ she says, waiting for him to hold out his hand then drops it into his palm. ‘I thought you’d want to hold onto it until you can give it back to him.’

‘Thank you,’ he breathes as she closes his fingers around it and curls her hand around his fist. Her hand is tiny compared to Harry’s but her fingers are cold. _Cold hands, warm heart_ , he thinks as he feels the medal digging into his palm. And it’s almost a relief because he’s been numb with panic since Louis swept into his room this morning, so it’s the first thing he feels for _hours_.

‘How did you know?’ he asks.

‘He called me about five seconds after you gave it to him.’

Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘I told him not to tell anyone.’

‘I know, but don’t be too hard on him. He couldn’t keep you a secret,’ she says, resting her head on his shoulder again. ‘There are some things you can’t keep in.’

His heart trills and he can’t help but press his cheek to the top of her head. She kind of smells like Harry, like he did the day they met, of the same washing powder, and it makes him weak with guilt as he thinks of the look on Harry’s face when he walked away from him last night at Mahiki. All of a sudden it doesn’t matter – it seems so trivial, their fight, Nick, all of it – his whole world narrowing to a single point: Harry. And _that’s_ love, he knows. It isn’t blind. He loves Harry with his eyes wide open. He knows that Harry is restless and insecure and needy, but he also knows that he’s brave and curious and kind. He’s seen it all and he loves it all and Harry’s right, he can’t take it back.

Gemma sweeps her thumb back and forth across his hand, his fist still clenched around the necklace. ‘He said you got it for him after he gave his to that girl in Ghana.’

‘It didn’t do him much good, though, did it?’ Zayn says with a sniff.

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘I’m sorry, Gem. I shouldn’t have left him.’

‘You didn’t, Zayn.’ She squeezes his hand. ‘You’re right here.’

 

+++

 

It’s been a year, but Harry is still inordinately proud of the scar on his leg. He tells Lux it’s a shark bite the first time she sees it. They’re in Jamaica and as soon as Lux sees it, she climbs out of Zayn’s lap to trace it with her finger, her little mouth opening into an O when Harry tells her that he had to punch the shark on the nose. If her Uncle Harry wasn’t already the coolest person she knew, he goes to the top of the list then.

Harry’s never needed an excuse to undress, so he happily rolls up the leg of his jeans any chance he gets to show it off. His war wound, he calls it when he tells the story of the time he had a fight with a black cab and won. But only Zayn sees the other scars, the neat one on his side from the chest tube, the not so neat one under his chin, the vein on his right hand that he swears is still sore from having a cannula embedded in it for so long. His back is covered them. They’re so small that most people don’t notice them, but Zayn can feel them, dozens of tiny bumps scattered across his back from the broken glass on the road. Zayn spends hours tracing lines between each one with his finger as though he’s seeking out constellations. Pegasus. Cepheus. Draco. Ursa Minor. An entire universe to explore on those rare Sunday morning lie ins or when they’re in Harry’s bunk, rolling on to another venue in another city they won’t remember an hour after they leave.

Everything has changed, but nothing has, all at once. Zayn still won’t jump into swimming pools and Harry still holds on too tight sometimes, but it doesn’t matter any more because they both broke that day. And while Zayn wishes that it didn’t take Harry being hit by a cab, now his broken bits fit perfectly with Harry’s broken bits and Zayn doesn't know if that's fate or destiny or just dumb luck, but Harry says it’s normal. ‘This is it,’ he hears him say sometimes before he falls asleep and Zayn smiles because it can’t be normal, it feels anything but.  



End file.
